


and forth he hastened (and grasped at moonbeams glistening)

by light_loves_the_dark



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I mean, M/M, Oops, Poor Elrond, This was supposed to be a drabble, aragorn is robb, bilbo is the best, but if you ever wondered what lotr/got is like, doing this for a friend, lowkey bagginshield, petyr is a wizard, read this i guess?, sansa has daggers, sansa is amazing, this is such a mess, what happens when you try to fit a complicated storyline into 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 04:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16381277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: Petyr is a Blue Wizard. Sansa of the Dunedain is his ward.It goes much of the way you'd think.-Bilbo smiles true then, a wide and happy grin directed Sansa's way, and gestures to some flowers. “Those Dahlias there, they are magnificent! You have to cut off their heads, you know, to allow them to grow. In the next life, they are healthier and happier for it.”





	and forth he hastened (and grasped at moonbeams glistening)

**Author's Note:**

> i literally didn't proofread this. catch me dying of embarrassment but i also love this general idea?? maybe i'll actually write it one day.

 

 

 

_i_

 

_“We have room enough for these children, my friend.”_

_The words are soft-spoken. Only the moonbeams are privy to this conversation, one that will change the course of the world. Two figures stand alone, and after some thought, one turns back to the other._

_“It is not the welcome of your halls that worries me, my lord Elrond. It is the watchful Eye.”_

_Elrond can’t help but widen his eyes, a rare show of shock for an elf so learned and wise. “He fell.” The whisper comes out like a query, one that does not want for a response._

_Gandalf leans against the table, weary, and gives it anyway. “Mayhap he did. But would you take such a risk for your House?”_

_Elrond looks out over the gilded railing of the gazebo where they stand. It feels wrong to decide the fate of children that will be so influential in a quick and furtive conversation in the dead of night. The children of Ned of the Dunedain, House Stark as they are known in the North, are the key to the Age of Men._

_At first they thought only Aragorn, the eldest for which poems have already been written, had survived the bloody civil war in the North. Elrond and Mithrandir had plans for this child, plans that did not include the three shadows that cling to him even now in the courtyard below._

_“Send the young boy to the Shire,” Mithrandir advises. “The youngest girl to Rohan. Thengel will watch over her like a father; he is a good man.”_

_“And the elder girl?”_

_“She will have a role that this Council cannot foresee.”_

_The other two freeze as the Lady of the Goldenwood appears before them. “My lady,” Mithrandir greets._

_“You cannot give her to the care of elf, nor man, nor dwarf, nor hobbit.”_

_The wizard furrows his brow, and then, in sudden realization, he sighs. “I see, my lady, but he is not to be trusted.”_

_The lady merely smiles. “Your brother and this child will turn the wheel of the future - for us all. One without the other could spell our doom.” And with that and a long glance full of meaning, she fades into the darkness._

_“Well,” Lord Elrond says simply. “Your brothers Saruman and Radagast know my trust without limits.”_

_Mithrandir pulls out his pipe, and tactic that Elrond has long realized means he must reveal a secret he deeply longs to keep.“My brother returns from the East,” he says finally. “His quest, he says, has failed, and his twin, fallen, but I know not if he is an instrument for good or for evil. It has been many millennia since our times in the kingdom of the Valar.”_

_“And yet you will give him a Dunedain child?”_

_Mithrandir eyes the eldest girl, no more than six and ten years into this world. She holds her younger brother’s hand in hers, much more fear in her eyes than the others._

_“Red is the color of her hair,” the wizard says. “May it also be the color of her spirit.”_

_And that is that._

 

_ii_

 

“Sansa, sweetling, it is time for your lessons.”

Since that foggy morn Elrond had thrust her into his arms, The Blue Wizard has cared for Sansa of the House Stark. He has raised her, taught her, and hid her, the second in line to the throne of Gondor, right under the steward’s nose. And there, he has loved her too, for she has fought her way into his heart. She has become his pupil in all ways, in the Great Library of Minas Tirith and in their bedchambers.

Most would be disgusted by a man his age bedding such a young woman, but after millennia alone, Petyr truly does not care. She reminds him of the Lady Nessa, with her long red hair and bright eyes, whose husband struck him down after discovering his innocent love poems. It had been then that Petyr had decided that he must be as powerful as he can manage; one day, he had sworn, he would be equal to a god.

For now, however, he must mold a wife. Later, he will find the power that will immortalize her.

The girl peeks out over the piles of books and scrolls, uncertain. “You promised I would not need to learn to fight,” she almost whines, gazing at him with pleading eyes. The resemblance to the Vala fades, but she is young. Petyr will teach her how to fool even himself.

“I promised no such thing,” he says, honeyed and sweet. She does not speak lies, however, and truly he would keep her helpless if he could. If she depends on his magic for protection, she cannot leave. He would rather not teach her anything, but Denethor eyes her like a fine wine and Petyr will not risk her when he is traveling.

“I hate swords, and bows, and axes,” she reminds him. “And a wizard’s staff cannot be wielded by any Man.”

“Not all wizards depend on a staff, sweetling.” He pulls out three daggers, each with a burgundy hilt. She examines the ancient lettering on the blade before looking up at him with curiosity. “These are the Daggers of Alator, my fallen brother. They have minds of their own; after every throw, they will return to she who wields them.”

 _“She_?” Sansa is wary.

He moves behind her, molding himself to her body with a sigh. “Yes, my love,” he says, pressing a dagger into her hand. His mouth brushes her ear. “ _She.”_

Sansa shudders, melting into him. He gestures to a target that he had set up the night before. “Now, let us see what you can do.”

“Around the books?” She sounds dubious.

“What better way to ensure you will not fail,” he offers. After receiving scorn from the other children for her beauty, Sansa loves her books more than anything.

Her aim is not true, not the first time, but Sansa finds that knife-throwing gives her joy. She practices every afternoon until her dagger finds its mark every time.

When she hits the target a hundred times in a row, Petyr gifts her with a new necklace and a deep smirk, pulling her against him.

She succumbs to his kisses easily.

 

_iii_

 

Petyr the Blue watches the one thing he loves above all else with a creased forehead and a downturned lip.

One night, twenty years from the night he had stolen away with her, he was away to Saruman, spinning his golden lies in hopes of inspiring his turn to The Eye. After all, there could be only one White Wizard, and if Saruman turned, Olorin and he would have to fight for the title. And Petyr planned to be the victor, finally the most powerful Maiar in Arda.

It was that night that Denethor found Sansa’s true lineage, and she had bolted with torches at her back. It was then he realized that he valued her equally to his plans, his beautiful ward, but despite his long searches across Middle Earth, she was not to be found.

Until now.

“If my brother gives you his sword, I would give you my arm.”

Waltzing into the Council of Elrond dressed in near rags, Sansa of the Dunedain marches up to Frodo Baggins, laying three knives at his feet. “For if he vouches for you, you must be worthy. I need not hear another word of this Quest other than his.”  

“Sister,” Aragorn breathes, but neither of them move to embrace. Petyr’s fingers twitch, itching to pull her away from those others that love her. He aims to keep her for himself, still, despite their long absence.

It seems, for this to be possible, he must go questing once more.

“And my staff,” he pledges, standing. “Are not two wizards better than one?”

Gandalf gives him a sharp look, but the other wizard says nothing. He expects they will exchange long and loud words later. Sansa gives him the same, but those are words to which he looks forward.

 

_iv_

 

“Long have I searched for you.”

Sansa jolts, turning to face him. Her brother stands behind her, dried tears on his face. Sansa has none, and he takes pride in her strength.

“Would you leave us, brother?” Sansa requests. Aragorn gives him a piercing look, but leaves all the same.

Petyr drinks in her appearance. “You could not imagine how I have longed to look upon your face,” he whispers. He can spare a little weakness for her.

Sansa, instead, hardens. “I will not be fooled by you again, _Lebedilthen._ ”

Petyr spreads his hands, as if to encompass the whole of Imladris. “Yet you have said nothing,” he reminds her.

Sansa sighs, taking a step back and turning to gaze out at the gardens. “I did not say I have not loved,” she admits. “My heart made its choice, however fickle and naive. You are a wizard. I could not hide that from you.” The Dunedain are much like elves in the way of love; she does not know why her heart has chosen the man that took her childhood from her, but it has, and it will not betray him.

“No, my love,” his voice is warm, and tainted by pride. “No, you couldn’t. And yet a wizard can be bound the same way, can you fathom it?”

Sansa’s eyes shoot to meet his. “And still, you must protect Frodo.”

“Must I?” He asks, raising a brow. “I do not undertake this quest for him. Even my brother knows this, but still he will not turn down a second staff.”

She marches up to him, gazing angrily into his eyes. They are the same height, and it thrills him. “You must,” she insists.

He does not back down. “And what will you give me in return?”

Sansa almost snarls in frustration, pulling his mouth to hers. They kiss for a long moment before separating. “Good,” he growls, before pulling her back, wrapping his hands in her hair to keep her in place.

She holds him just as tightly, kisses back just as hard, which is why he ignores the tears that leak from her eyelashes.

 

_v_

 

She loves him. They could have ruled Middle Earth together.

But he forgets. That is not what she wants. She remains as untouchable as the sun, as elusive as a moonbeam.

She loves him. He would have made her immortal.

But he is false. They will lose; they have nothing left. He will tell Sauron where the Ringbearer is. He will protect their future.

She loves him.

It does not stop her dagger, his gift to her, from slitting his throat. It does not stop her tears as his blood runs cold on the floor, staining her hands.

He loved her.

The hands of a brother-king cannot heal heartsickness. The world flourishes once more, but Sansa has done her part and is broken for it.

With a deep understanding of what it is to be broken by love, Gandalf takes her to Rivendell.

 

_vi_

 

She finds peace once more in the company of none other than Bilbo Baggins.

They speak about nothing and everything, innocent topics of food and laughter and friendship. In a more lucid moment, he tells her of his pain:

“Your Petyr was a wizard?” He asks. Sansa nods. “I will not see my love in the afterlife either,” he continues, “We had a year together, and I would not trade it for all the ages of the world.”

“Could you have hurt him?” Sansa wonders. “I do not know what it makes me, the killer of one I loved.”

Bilbo gives her a knowing, sad smile. “My love went quite mad, for awhile. I could not tell you what I was capable of, now, no one can. But your wizard had a darkness in his soul. My love did as well. I would’ve saved him if I could, but…” he trails off.

“Bilbo?” Sansa urges.

He smiles true then, a half-mad and wide grin, and gestures to some flowers that line the paths in front of them. “Those Dahlias there, they are magnificent!" It seems completely incongruous, especially taking into account their current, somber conversation. Yet, Sansa waits, knowing Bilbo has a unique knack for imparting knowledge. "You have to cut off their heads, you know, to allow them to grow. In the next life, they are healthier and happier for it.”

Sansa sighs. A flower is quite different from another human being, but Bilbo is right. She looks at the pretty, blue flowers, before remembering how Hobbits are with their plants. "And what do they mean, my friend?” She inquires. 

Bilbo’s smile does not fade, but his eyes grow serious as he takes her hands in his. For a moment, Sansa can see the hobbit that changed everything, and the toll that must have taken. “Commitment, my dear,” he replies, staring at the flowers wistfully. “And a bond that lasts forever.” Sansa breaks into tears, and Bilbo is ready to receive her.

For many hours, Sansa cries in the arms of an old hobbit. Many hours later, she still misses her Petyr.

But those many hours later, she can see him in flowers, in the wind, the best of the Blue Wizard who was corrupted by all the pain in the world. She gathers her spirits; she loves Petyr, but she is far more than him.

She is Sansa of the Dunedain, and there is much more that she can offer this world.

**Author's Note:**

> Lebedilthen is the closest I could get to Littlefinger in Sindarin . <3


End file.
